Step by Step/Issue 34
This is Issue #34 of ''Step by Step''. ''This is the fourth issue of '''Volume Six'. All Cloud Lyle Jackson is a killer. Nolan, too. Something had taken place during that September roadtrip. On that boiling hot autumn night, the two had spent hours galloping along the state. They'd stopped at a diner, one called through virtue Blacktop Diner ("Two for one specials," a sign said in the front. Who couldn't resist?). People–fellers walking down and about the crosswalks–minded not much of them. If asked, out of those who had passed them, only two or three would have recalled with truth. And whether they liked it or not, here the two of them were trespassers. Grave-robbers across a field of tombstones and crosses, bone to bone and flesh shackled together. That evening, not a squint-size of people walked the streets. A large portion was at the night's Sunday church services, the rest in their dwellings. Outside, there was a vicious freedom, untainted by noise. A numbed commotion inside the diner was all. At the front stools, baseball-capped men watched the dark o'clock news. Tom Gallenger, a despicable Smiths Ferrian, had gone missing. Next, the mumbling men predicted, the devil's face would have made it onto the backs of milk cartons. All possibility, but Nolan hadn't paid no mind. Indeed, then there remained no souls in the hallow woods. This is where, after a mild lunch at the diner, Nolan and Lyle had gone to work. At about a quarter after eight, they'd begun digging up fresh holes. On these swampy marsh lands, nobody could be of witness. After a while, digging them up and slipping hand-signed documents into each one became a habit. A Dodge pickup stood at the edge of a row of holes, the headlights illuminating critter-buzzing ground for the men to dig. They were thieves hiding something, fresh after a great plunder. What they hadn't hoped for was one pair of eyes in the area. On the far edge of town lived one person, and he watched them bring up the soil. Midnight oil, Lyle had that on him. He smelled like the bitter ash of a campfire. The place smelled like a sewer, so there was that. "Looks good to me," said the Marlboro man. "A little dab of gum-juice wouldn't hurt none." "You're sober," Nolan reminded him. He held a shovel between his hands. Before setting it upright in the soil, he felt eyes on him. "Stick to the cancer sticks, Jack." A mosquito fell on his denim shoulder. It flew off, but the paranoia did not. These parts scared him, it was dark country. Some place to be avoided. He noticed his voice was trembling, taking feet with no breath in them. "Plus," he said jabbing the shovel into the earth. "We have some deliveries to take care of." "True that." And with that, Nolan went to grab a plastic-bagged body. It was in the bed of his truck. He would came back, dump the body overboard, and sense that boss-man was smiling from somewhere. What would matter, would be those curious eyes peeking at them. They must think we're new, he'd thought and took note of it. He was not a local, but had passed through this small town like a bird from river to river. A toad from lily to lily. "Neighbors are watching," he told Lyle as the churchgoers were praying. "We done?" "Slicker than honey," the headman declared. He met Nolan's eyes. The thrill filled them. Lyle was having his predator day, a night on the hunt. The light from his cigarette crackled to life. "It's late, you got–" "I have the rest." Nolan did have the rest of the graves. To himself, you see. It would be his task to fatten the holes back up. He grabbed the shovel, lifted a mucky boot out of the wet ground with a squelching sound, and nodded. "The graveyard shift." "The graveyard shift," Lyle ushered him a cigarette. "Wanna hit?" Nolan shook his head no. Hell, he had from now to midnight. After that, he would need to skip town. First thing in the morning. It was the best form of common courtesy he could have thought've. Now this was before Alexander's last gasp for air. He still had time to live down stuff, things among the nightfall. He wasn't scared then, and he certainly wasn't afraid of a dead person in a wormy grave. He was a killer, you ought to see. Just how much of a killer, he had no idea. "You got five pits to tend to," Lyle reminded him. He pointed at Tom's spot, "Make sure you add extra dirt there." "Shit." "Don't think about it." "I can try." Nolan covered his lower face with a handkerchief. He looked around one last time. The headman, the sleeper leader, looked at Nolan. The man stood half in Tom's grave. "What happened here?" "We killed Gallenger." The headman's eyes strained the whites. "He just got a little bit too hot," said Lyle. "You know what it's like. With the sun all day. People get hot, really hot." "A little too hot," Nolan corrected him. "We were all a little hot today," said Lyle. "The blood starts to boil." "That's what happened." A chilly breeze blew their way. It'd eddied past the mustard weeds, coming like the breath from a headless pigeon. As a matter of fact, right before Lyle left, Nolan saw his shadow had no head. He moved to the side, and then it appeared. He gulped down fear. "All right, you're done here. Now what do you do?" "Gonna catch me the evening services." ---- Death happens to be like the stroke of midnight. It wanders the clock, haunts the seconds, and keeps coming. It lurks. It dances, laughs, and breaths. Death is alive, something conscious. It has a beating heart, blacker than dirt taken from the great ash deposits near a campfire. Gather around, he speaks when he lingers, gather around and cook. Cook, he says, cook until you're a fine warm dinner for the beasts of night. The fourth horseman. He likes the night. Right now the sun is falling over Indiana. He's coming out. Under the roads, he rides a pale horse through the sewers. Lyle Jackson heard him trot outside the door. He was getting that feeling in his chest, that brute sense of danger. He had opened the door, seen a man behind it. Death sees all as equal, Lyle knew that. The Grim Reaper belongs here. In the darkness. The man–who's name was Malik, you oughta know–was a good man. He was a good man, for reasons yet to be seen. He wore a black jacket, unbuttoned at two sides. There's a look of failing dignity on his eyes. This here was evident; smudges of grease cross his forehead, and he needs a shave badly. Lyle only saw this with the slighest of light, so more was to be detailed. Like it was said, death sees no color. He sees no clothing one wears, no way a man walks, and no way a woman walks. The reaper has a scythe, that's all. It's a common tool, one used by the ancestors of all the men in the room. It comes back to them, regarded as a single word. Fear, that's it. This is the feeling of not knowing, the way a beetle freezes under a shoe's sole. The soul is taken, and Lyle saw this with thick ambitions. "I'm looking," he said. "I'm looking around for some of my kin. They aren't big, only two of themselves. You understand, I'm lookin for two young ones. A she and a he." "We've seen none." Malik reached closer. "We haven't seen the least bit of them." "You must've," the man says. "I lost them when the subway flooded. The Amtruck." "Amtrak," Dennis corrected him. To his surprise, Malik does not whatever him. "You still could have seen them. How long you been down here–you know, walking these drains?" The light from the Zippo reaches a point, at an angle of spark where Lyle can just about make out Malik. He's a below six-feet man in blue jeans. He's got sorrow in his eyes. Malik reached for his hand, tears welling in his eyes. "I needja help." Lyle remained still. The thrill was gone. "Let me talk about something." Malik didn't quiver the slighest. "I'm listenin." "I had a sweet dog growing up." Lyle smiled, and he heard the Reaper coming. "It barked all day and night. Dogs are man's best friend, you get to know them. When one hurts, you hurt too. You sense them. Don't get me wrong, a good dog he was. He bred me three young ones. One night a storm rolled in. One cubby disappeared. He attacked me right outta no where. My dog never bit people afore that." Something moved under Malik's tears. It came to Lyle that Malik was not looking at him. He was looking at a mask, a man behind a mask. "I get what you say. I do." "You get that we're gonna help," Lyle said, a surge of blood swelling in his forehead. "I think you'd be good enough, and I'm knowing this, that you won't try anything." "I won't." This was different from that bloody September. A new danger, it was keeping Lyle on his toes. Fast on the draw, Nolan would've suggested. There was nothing more ominous than a threatening stranger. Stranger danger. A wicked feel it is. But Lyle'' enjoyed it, he even dared to love it. The hairs on his nape rose, his lungs quesied, and his balls tingled with scare. Think of it like a run through a dark street. You don't know what might live around the other corner. It's as uncertain as a lottery ticket, the one that hangs like a clock above a head. It ticks. Tick, tock. For every second, it goes tick then tock. It's a constant reminder—souls, among all shades of white or black, hang on thin threads. Lyle does know this, and he knew then that his time left was not so long. Not good atall, and sometimes he wondered how short it was getting to be. Lyle, with his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, looked to Dennis and the other man. "Got it?" "Like a frisbee," Nolan said. "Okay—sure." Dennis is looking worried, he's feeling the fear with a different grip. He doesn't hold on to it, embrace it with warm arms like Lyle does. He's the opposite; jaw clenched, lips tightening white, and knuckles locked. Sweat rolled down his head. "I'll help, too." "Scar, come here for a second." He pointed at the broomstick. "Check that out. I want it." Derek was standing a foot aside the door. He didn't need to move. He was close enough. “Why do you do such stupid things?” "I have to," he answered. "It keeps you from doing bad stuff. Bad stuff gets you killed, or worse." "Lyle–what's worse than that?" This came from Malik. He had grown two feet closer. A trying stance. He took the broomstick and lit it up. It roared in flames, lighting up the place with a bright glow. ''Make a wish, he thinks. He led the way out past Malik, the man followed suit. He had to, or else the worse part would come. Lyle had something on his mind. Death slept on bunk beds of blackness that surrounded them. His feet sloshed through the wet cement. The five reached down the stairs. He didn't even ask about the bodies, but he did see that Malik was set with a hatchet. Thoughts plunge through every corner of his head. He's thinking about where's he been, all this time. They're after him, he knows that enough. Wayne's probably helping them out. Joseph, too. Trust is a hard thing to trust nowadays. Lyle did not put much faith into it, like a lizard doesn't trust an eagle hovering above her. How long they have left, he's not too sure. If the five cross paths with the men stalking the sewers for them, he would try whatever would be at hand. Whether that meant a tea party with the grim reaper after a long harvest, Lyle didn't know. "What'd you say?" "I asked what's worse." "What, death?" Malik made a face. “Yeah—what's badder than that?" "Hopefully, you won't come to find out." But the night ahead would prove them wrong. Issues Category:Step by Step Category:Category:Step by Step Issues Category:Issues